


an interlude

by Alias (anafabula)



Series: the wanting comes in waves [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (the coming untouched is unsolicited and Eye-related.), A little bit of angst, Begging, Clothed Sex, Coming Untouched, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot, Squirting, This presumably counts as sex but I’m not sure who or what other than Jon is having it, Trans Male Character, as a garnish, canon-typical Martin pining, kinkmeme fill, ’They are literally together and he is still pining’ Edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anafabula/pseuds/Alias
Summary: Jon grabs Martin’s wrist, more a suggestion than anything but Martin’s hardly not going to let him, and raises Martin’s hand to his face. “I’m sorry,” Jon says, “I can’t— but I need to be quiet and Ican’t—”Kinkmeme prompt: ‘What if by “feels right”, Jon meant that every time the Eye pushes horrid apocalypse visions into him, he has powerful spontaneous orgasms?’
Relationships: Beholding/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: the wanting comes in waves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730722
Comments: 33
Kudos: 276
Collections: Rusty Kink





	an interlude

**Author's Note:**

> For [this kinkmeme prompt](https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=393828#cmt393828), which has consuméd me.

When Jon not only stops but stumbles into him, Martin fears the worst in an incoherent kind of way more than anything else. He’s been — constantly — wrong about how far _worst_ can go, it’s just the largest available formless dread that he can manage any more. So when (after a few tries) Jon grabs his sleeve with one shaking hand and turns back toward him, face flushed and panicked, Martin doesn’t think any further than this being obviously bad.

“No,” he says, voice cracking, staring past Martin into nothing in a way Martin’s come to recognize by now. “No no _no_ , not now, not— _please—_ ” Jon’s most of the way to hyperventilating but his focus shifts to Martin before he can say anything to confirm what’s happening. “I can’t— I— I can’t stop it, I can never—”

He grabs Martin’s wrist, more a suggestion than anything but Martin’s hardly not going to let him, and raises Martin’s hand to his face. “I’m sorry,” Jon says, “I can’t— but I need to be quiet and I _can’t—_ ” 

Martin still doesn’t get the hint, somehow, until Jon pulls Martin’s hand over his mouth and mumbles “ _Please_ ” into his palm, tentatively folding himself back against him. 

“Oh,” Martin says, belated and more than a bit stupid, but Jon nods as much as he can against Martin’s hand when he wraps his other arm across Jon’s chest and pulls him as close and tight as it feels something like safe to. 

Jon relaxes a fraction and whines into his palm. Nods, again, so Martin (still hesitantly) shifts his grip against the bones of Jon’s face, until he’s forced to stop.

His skin is so _warm_. Jon— isn’t supposed to be warm. But he’s also not _supposed_ to be panting against Martin’s hand where Martin’s effectively muzzling him, breaths increasingly interspersed with whimpering that starts soft and quickly gets harsher. 

Martin feels like he should say— something, god knows what, has just opened his mouth when Jon’s hands come up and grasp his wrists. Not pulling him away but holding him in place, pushing him closer if anything. The grip is a glorified suggestion. His fingers shake. 

Then Jon moans outright, and his hips jerk into nothing, and Martin’s unspoken question of whether it’s started in earnest effectively answers itself. Jon somehow still manages to sound like he’s begging, wordless and muffled, and Martin has to follow him with his hand as Jon’s head tips back.

Martin wants to think that at least he’s not seeing Jon’s face, this time, but it’s possibly worse to be touching him. Jon’s whole body flush against him, head leaned against his shoulder. Shaking — no, _writhing_ in Martin’s arms, his whimpers and moans muffled in his hand. And some stupid animal part of Martin’s brain that refuses to take in that this is still fundamentally wrong is inscribing into his memory every single detail of how it looks and sounds and _feels_ , for Jon to be falling apart and Martin holding him down because Jon asked him to—

(It’s not okay. It’s _not._ And Martin can ignore that part of himself; he has been. But he hates himself a little for the fact that he has to try.)

As far as Martin’s been able to tell without asking, these episodes are as close to all climax as it could get, but there’s still something different happening when the tenor of Jon’s moans changes abruptly, loud and ragged and trailing off into a breathless keening sound. 

His body goes rigid for a long, long moment, and then he’s all but melting back against Martin’s chest, all little gasps and almost-inaudible soft whining. Martin doesn’t put together what just happened there until he shifts to get a look down Jon’s body and realizes with a start that as he finished coming — or however it is that works — he must have squirted, slick soaking through the crotch of his trousers and still visibly dripping down his splayed thighs. 

Martin only starts loosening the hold he’s got on Jon once he seems to be through the worst of shuddering aftershocks, when the only sound he makes are harsh, panting breaths. 

Jon slaps weakly at Martin’s wrist about it once he realizes what’s happening, apparently impatient, until Martin lets him go.

“All right,” Jon says, bitter and unsteady, stepping back and turning anyway. “I, I think that’s— Oh,” he says, then, voice softening suddenly; and, “What the _fuck_ ,” which is the point where his knees give out. 

He hits the floor hard, gasping and shuddering, but rocks forward and mashes the side of his face against Martin’s thigh apparently on purpose. Martin freezes. Jon’s voice breaks as he says, “I don’t— I— this isn’t supposed to happen, it _isn’t_ , oh god,” small pathetic sounds creeping in around the edges of words, “Oh _god_ , Martin, I’m— I’m—” 

Martin bites his lip, trying for tact, then manages, “Um.” Slightly more effort: “It’s— Again?”

Jon nods miserably, a motion Martin feels more than he sees. It does seem to be less of everything — Jon’s managed to cover his own mouth, this time, pressing hard with the heel of his hand to stifle helpless-sounding mewling noises that Martin still would’ve struggled to imagine from him. 

He clings to Martin like a lifeline and Martin wants to be able to give him that; to be able to give him _something_. Wants, this time selfishly, to card his fingers through Jon’s hair, like that would ever help. 

(The image of Jon shuddering and incoherent and _kneeling at his feet_ , desperate and undeniably smelling of sex, is going to be with Martin longer than he’s comfortable with, too.)

It takes longer for Jon to stabilize, this time, pressed against Martin’s leg like he’d fall face-first if Martin moved. But eventually Jon does sit back on his heels, heavy breathing evening out. 

“Christ,” he says, quiet, looking down at himself with evident, miserable disgust. His voice is blown out in a way Martin still associates either with when Jon was chain-smoking again or with him hurting people now. “I— I—” Jon clears his throat (which sounds painful, really) and seems to realize he can’t even do some perfunctory gesture of composure like brushing his thighs off. Lurches to his feet, unsteadily, instead. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, somehow both stiff and pathetic. His voice is closer to even once he speaks again, but that’s not saying much. “So. The basement is— surprisingly intact, all things considered. I probably still have clothes around here somewhere, or, or at least I can…”

“We should take a detour, then,” Martin says, pointedly, before Jon can start in on why him feeling something like well enough to exist doesn’t matter when they have this little time.

“It’s, it’s just so much _more,_ here,” he says (stammers, a bit) instead. “I didn’t— I didn’t know. But I can still feel the— the—” Jon shudders, blinking rapidly, and when he stops Martin notices his fists are clenched so hard the knuckles are white.

Martin would want to touch him, but he doesn’t think it would help. “Let’s go,” he says instead, trying to find the right absence of gentleness to make Jon hear him.

“Well.” Jon has finally found that cold, abrupt tone Martin knew so well, the one he seems to think can substitute for feeling brave. “Yes. All right.”

(Martin also considered offering to lead the way this time. He doesn’t think that would help either, though. Not enough, not really.)

“All right,” Jon says again, as quietly as if it’s to himself, but he shivers, once, before he manages to be still. 

And Martin does notice the quietly malevolent whirr of fresh tape, then, but only in relation to the sound of the recorder clicking off.

**Author's Note:**

> comments give me life I am just saying anyway thank you have a nicer day than Martin is
> 
> NB. [same universe, same prompt, way earlier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343955), for your further "Jon getting fucked with" needs


End file.
